Inkling
an online journal of poetry and prose

04/13/09

The State of Hockey

Growing up in Minnesota a Saturday night hockey game

 was like a trip to Disneyland. For my father those

 games were another chance to lecture about the importance of defense.

When the home team scored I jumped up on my red plastic

 seat cheering and chanting with the crowd as he sat

stoically, his rock like skin barely chiseling out a smile.

Between periods, when other dads bought their kids

to the concession stand for pizza and pop, he

 instructed me on the importance of playing

the man and staying square to the shooter.

After the games, in bed I would dream

 of slap shots so hard they ripped through

twine and left the arena smelling of burnt rubber.

While a room away, my father would dream

 of defensemen who always made the right choice and

 a goalie that never gave up a goal.

*                  *                  *

Running in Sringbrook Nature Center

Deer drinking from a stream

in unison slurps, like synchronized

swimmers scatter as my feet pound

on a rickety walking bridge.

It’s an explosion of brown

and white, hide ricocheting

in every direction, except for

one defiant buck.

He barks like a 1970’s American

muscle car, spittle oozing from his

maw and breath billowing in the chilled

November air like smoke from a bonfire.

I feel earthquakes as twigs snap

under my feet; the whistling wind is loud

as tornado sirens, and my heart bangs around

in my chest like a loose ball bearing.

The beast utters one final sound: a human-like

scoff and disappears into the woods.

I return to my apartment; lock the door, but

I still feel dark eyes burrowing through me.